by JJ Partridge
As for the continuing saga of ‘Magua’ Jones, the ‘victim-hero’ refused to enter a plea at his arraignment and disrupted the court with war chants that infuriated the judge, brought in the sheriffs, and ignited a melee with Jones’ family members and supporters. With the media now fully engaged, Jones placed a curse on Haversham Golf Club by telephone at an event staged by relatives in the Indian Swamp, complete with a fire ritual. That was followed by the ACLU representing Jones in lawsuits for religious sessions for Native Americans at the ACI and changes in hair length regulations. He also acquired a flamboyant defense attorney, a Rosebud Sioux who affected a ten gallon hat with feathers, and more beads than Gerry Spence, who filed multiple motions—all denied—to throw out the case on jurisdictional grounds because his client was an ‘unassimilated native,’ not subject to state or federal laws but only the jurisdiction of his band. Meanwhile, picketing by rights activists at the ACI and the courthouse, Jones’ delusional claims to be the reincarnated Magua, and his backers’ accusations of guard brutality, brought out nutters of every kind and stripe whose rants filled talk radio airwaves with evil bilge. Tensions rose. This, in a population that until a few months ago had never heard of the Quonnies!
At trial, covered by CourtTV whose last appearance in Rhode Island was Claus von Bulow’s murder trial, the circumstantial case against Jones was soon punctured with doubt; when it came right down to it, the prosecution’s case consisted of evidence of bruises on Peter Gardiner’s body, Jones’ escape as related by Flanaghan, Jones’ possession of Gardiner’s gun, and motives of hate and revenge against the Gardiners. The defense countered that there were no witnesses to the actual shooting or alleged struggle, the fire was the likely result of a lightning strike at the old homestead, and Peter, not fatally wounded, died from asphyxiation in a trailer that, according to a Quonnie friend of Randall’s, had a warped door frame so that the door often stuck, something Peter might not know, possibly couldn’t overcome. How Jones got Peter’s gun was somehow lost in the evidence shuffle and courtroom antics of defense counsel. Jones never said a word in his own defense and I wondered if the jury was going to get past his scowling demeanor, beads and feathers, his unshorn hair, or the nightly television scenes of demonstrators, including Carter University kids, denouncing the ‘show trial’ of a Native American.
The jury hung. Rather than immediately retrying the case, the Attorney General decided on the accessory prosecution for the clubhouse fire and the single assault charge, looking for a plea bargain on all charges of twenty years with a minimum to serve of twelve and mandatory psychological treatment. While generous considering the evidence, Jones refused the deal, savoring another opportunity to play victim. By then, word had leaked about Charlie’s proposed testimony but in Westerly, any taint of Charlie Fessenden’s weakness had been washed by the detergent of Charlie’s efforts in the capture of Jones, the Club being opened for golf play, and Charlie being instrumental in the dismissal of the Calibrese lawsuit. Charlie, now thoroughly believing and often embellishing his role, was happily back selling real estate to new and prospective Haversham Golf Club members.
Joe Laretta was engaged to ensure his client had a short, straight, believable, and well-rehearsed story of the night of the fire. But what saved Charlie was that the reincarnated Magua didn’t survive to his arraignment. Within two months of the murder trial, he was found hanging from a noose of bed sheets in the lavatory of the prison laundry. Laretta later told me that Jones’ enemies inside, both inmates and guards, were legion, and that hatreds multiplied as he became a self-proclaimed ‘white hater’ who angered a group of white supremacist inside, and disparaged black and Latino inmates as ‘slaves.’ Which group did the deed remains unknown.
Some people are better off dead, I thought, when I heard the news. The world is a better place without him.
Then, I heard Nadie’s voice, ‘Who are you to judge?’
* * *
Ironically, Magua Jones, even in death, was not through with Haversham Golf Club; maybe his curse laid on the Club might not prove effective but was prophetic. Within a month of the opening the new clubhouse, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals determined that the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, or RFRA, which Congress passed in 1993, meant the federal government was required to demonstrate a ‘compelling interest’ in any action or permit that would ‘substantially’ burden a religious practice of Native Americans. The case caught the attention of Jones’ activist counsel who filed a suit in United States District Court claiming that the presence of the clubhouse on Mouwneit would effectively terminate a significant cultural event for the Quonnies, i.e., their ritual fires, and that the federal government hadn’t considered RFRA during the permitting process. Even Plastic Man would have trouble stretching facts that far since the Quonnies were not federally recognized, no permitting authorities were aware of any Quonnies claim, the Quonnies had long ago released their claim to the land to Ugo Calibrese, and the only federal permit involved was one related to water discharge under the federal Clean Water Act because the Indian Swamp eventually flowed into the Pawcatuck, a boundary between two states. Nonetheless, knowing how things can go, the Club couldn’t ignore the suit, confirming to Gordon Ackley that he had a client that was an ‘evergreen,’ a source of much joy at Brinkley & Alley, especially after the Jones family began to agitate to put Mouwneit back into the band’s petition for federal recognition.
* * *
Of course, these events were in the future when on a humid day in late July, with bus fumes coloring Kennedy Plaza’s air a yellowish brown, I was summoned to City Hall by a telephone message from Ms. Ciccone. Puppy Dog sat at a corner of his desk so he could look down at me.
“How did you do it?” he asked, his eyes burning with indignation.
“How did I do what?”
“Sonny has a lot riding on this festival. This is a big deal! It’s got to be a huge success!”
“Well, I hope it is. I brought my draft of a revised Protocol….”
“Some …”—he was so mad he couldn’t get it out coherently—“… flunky from the Italian Consulate in Boston called Sonny yesterday. The Italians gonna cancel! Said they’re not coming unless the University is a ‘co-sponsor’ and certifies everything is ready…!”
“Really,” I said archly.
“You did something, goddamnit! You were there!”
* * *
One afternoon in Bellagio, I called my brother. As an international investment banker, he always knows somebody—or somebody who knows somebody—of importance wherever. Within an hour, he was back to me with an appointment with an Italian automotive magnet whose family name even I had heard of, an important star in the Italian political firmament, who, luck would have it, was at his villa north of Verona. Yes, I would miss the attractions of Padua with Nadie.
I arrived at the entrance of Villa Santori near eleven, pushed the button in the gates’ security console, stared into a blinking camera, and stated my name. The gates electronically opened to a gravel lane shaded by umbrella pines leading to an immense, post card beautiful villa surrounded by gnarled oaks and groves of walnut trees. I was greeted by a middle-aged man in a white, loosely flowing shirt and black trousers, a solid figure with carefully coiffured black hair and a square, slightly Germanic face. In charmingly accented English, he invited me to tour his vineyard, pleased that I knew something of the wines of the Veneto and Friuli. He explained that he grew mostly Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, and Pinot Noir grapes for his private use, particularly for a blended rosato prosescco of which he was particularly proud. Under a loggia by a swimming pool, we enjoyed his wine in stemmed glasses with fluted rims; it was a splendid frizzanta, salmon pink, dry, with an almond finish. That led to a delightful lunch of soup, antipasto, eggplant stuffed tomatoes, slices of cold roast with caper sauce and figs, served with vintage Valpolicella and Amarone while I explained my ‘problem.’ He responded with a shrug here, a nod there. He asked me where Sonny’s family cam
e from in Italy and I told him I thought it was Apulia. He sniffed, and again, a shrug.
It was obvious my host possessed sprezzatura, the Italian art of effortless mastery of a subject, a situation. With his napkin waving in the air, Verona, he said, is a city of history and of character, urbane with multi-talented citizens, including world renowned artists and designers, and a cuisine prepared in a Northern Italian style that was the ‘envy of Italy.’ An official exhibition in Providence—‘where is that by the way’—would have to be done with ‘respect.’ He was sure his old friend, Mayor Pontaloni, would agree. Persons in the government could be prevailed upon. It was a matter of honor that if Verona were to become ‘familia’ with a city ‘in the States,’ it must be appreciated that Verona’s culture can be exhibited only in the most appropriate of locations and with venerable and honorable associations. Otherwise, how could there be ‘respect.’
Our luncheon ended with millefoglie, a pastry baked with strawberries and whipped cream, a large espresso, and a sweet wine for the digestion. “Don’t concern yourself,” he said before we finished. “It will be as you desire.”
* * *
“You’re blackmailing!” Puppy Dog spit out.
I didn’t respond. Where had I heard that before? Was I getting good at it? I wouldn’t deny that I was experiencing schadenfreude, the unholy joy of an enemy’s hurt. But few things in life are as enjoyable as a hypocrite’s discomfort.
“Sonny almost told him to go to hell, you know that? After all this work…!”
I grimaced.
“Sonny … hates you! He’s gonna stomp on your ass one day. He had Ugo Calibrese in his office when the son of a bitch from the consulate calls. He told Sonny to lay off you. Why was that?”
A surprise!
“That was nice.”
“You are really pushing it.”
“The revised Protocol,” I said as I handed it to him. “I need the Chief’s signature. Then, you get a festa.” I looked up at his gargoyle face, knowing I had both a revised Protocol and a ‘truce’ through the last day of the festa. But after that...!
* * *
I left Puppy Dog’s office, giving Paula Ciccone an unexpected high five. City Hall didn’t feel so tawdry because I, for once, left as a winner.
I stopped for a takeout doppio espresso at the Starbucks in the old Hospital Trust building and took the hot, acrid brew across the College Street Bridge to a bench on the cobblestone walk in the park facing the Providence River. The corridor from Route 195 was busy with traffic; without a breeze, a haze would soon be hovering over the downtown. Under the shade of maples, with the ebbing tide sending ripples to the granite abutments, I reflected on a month of deals, strokes and counter-strokes, ‘stick it in your eye’ politics, and compromises. I sipped the espresso slowly and realized that this narrow section of the river is where the Bay was once choked into what was the Great Salt Pond of the Narragansetts. What had Derek Kirk said about the leaders of the local tribes and bands—all deal makers—until King Philip? Maybe if he had made a deal…?
* * *
That evening, in the semi’s of the Billiard Club’s tournament, I lost my match to Alec Ferguson. I managed to win one game in the best-of-five which gave me at least the patina of being able to keep up. After I lost, Young Jimmy joined me at the bar. I soon had a Heineken in front of me; Young Jimmy was drinking San Pellegrino. He said, “A couple of weeks ago, a guy from back when called me. Ugo Calibrese. He wanted to know if you were a stand up guy.”
I hardly batted an eye.
“And…?”
“I said I’ve known you for a long time. Longer than I’ve known him. You don’t always go with the flow but you keep your word.”
“Ah, shucks!”
“I told him the truth,” Young Jimmy said with a conviction that made me feel honored.
I replied, “If he ever calls you again, tell him I know what that means.”
Young Jimmy raised his eyebrows.
* * *
I got home about ten. Nadie was upstairs on the sofa watching television. She wore one of my bathrobes, her feet were tucked under her. She used the remote to turn down the sound when I said that I had played well but lost. I noticed a leather bound Sonnets from the Portuguese that I had purchased from a bookseller in Verona after my visit to Villa Santori was next to her. I had given her the slim volume our last night in Trieste, suitably inscribed, “If thou must love me….”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Not very,” taking my eyes from the book. “Alec is a better player. Winning last year was a fluke.”
“Well,” she said, her face breaking into a smile. “I have news too. The ‘suggestions’ were withdrawn today! No idea why. Just an e-mail from the Chair saying that they were meant to be helpful and not an attempt to change my syllabus, and in any event, no need for further discussion.” She threw her arms open to me. “Algy, I won!”
I went to the sofa and kissed her, and wondered if Charles Danby had dropped a discrete hint. She clung to me and I felt her body fold into mine. Then, she pushed me away. She took my hand, squeezed it tightly, her face lost its excitement and became gentle as her eyes brimmed with tears. Her breaths rose and fell. “Are you ready for something else?”
I wasn’t, but I said, “What else?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about us, that night in Trieste. Commitment has to have its symbols. I’m committed to you and I’d like to be married to you.”
My mouth fell open. “Nadie, don’t joke about this.”
“No joke. It’s time. Carissimo.”
I said, without thinking I made little sense, “Together?”
She answered, “Together.”
Author’s Acknowledgements and Statement
I want to extend my sincere appreciation to supportive readers of Carom Shot and friends who both challenged me and encouraged me to write Straight Pool. Particularly, I want to thank Donna Beals for putting up with the vagaries of drafts, cryptic handwriting, and revisions. Of course, my family was supportive and I appreciate their patience especially when I would disappear into my home office for writing, editing, and research. David Partridge especially deserves my thanks for his keen observations and grammatical skills.
As indicated in the publisher’s note, this is a ‘work of fiction.’ That deserves further clarification. As the idea for Straight Pool was formulated, I became interested in two aspects of Rhode Island history, first, the plight of native people in Massachusetts and Rhode Island during colonial days, and secondly, the Great Hurricane of 1938.
For research, I want to thank the Rhode Island Historical Society for its many resources and library and suggest to all interested they read Mayflower by Nathaniel Philbrick__________ (2006), William G. McLoughlin’s Rhode Island, W.W. Norton (1986), Sons of Providence by Charles Rappleye, Simon & Schuster (2005) for an appreciation of Rhode Island’s early history, its native people, King Philip’s War, and the impact of slavery during colonial times through the American Revolution. For a contemporary colonist version of King Philip’s War, John Foster, The Present State of New-England. Being A Narrative of the Troubles With the Indians In New-England, from the First Planting Thereof in the Year 1607, to this Present Year of 1677. But Chiefly of the Late Troubles in the Two Last Years 1675 and 1676, available at the Rhode Island Historical Society.
Additional thanks to Dr. Francis Waabu O’Brien for his scholarship and his American Indian Place Names in Rhode Island, Newport (2003). On gaming issues, I appreciate the thoughts and scholarly research of many, including Dr. Taylor Adams.
As for Westerly and the Great Hurricane of 1938, among the very good recountings of that storm are Sudden Sea: The Great Hurricane of 1938 by R.A. Scotti, Little, Brown and Company (2003) and A Wind to Shake The World by Everett S. Allen, Little, Brown and Company (1976). For photographs of the devastation, Watch Hill by Brigid M. Rooney, Arcadia (2004), provide some of the best. George H. Utter’s Old Pictures of Westerly
, Utter Publishing (1991) records the town at the height of its prosperity.
I suggest that a reader with any modicum of interest in Rhode Island’s history take a moment to consider the historical saga of New England’s native people. Their sovereignty should be taken seriously, openly, and honestly, howsoever it happened. It is time to take a deep breath and work out solutions that make sense without resorting to inappropriate and scurrilous stereotypes. Exceptionalism is always a problem in any democratic society but, occasionally, that is what the law requires.
Finally, don’t forget to google ‘Magua.’
Wunnohteaonk. May peace be in your heart.